


Hush, hush

by withered



Series: Who's been lovin' you good? [46]
Category: Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: Cuddling, Friday makes Power Point presentations, Insomnia, M/M, Not Clint Barton Friendly, Not Steve Rogers Friendly, Post-Captain America: Civil War, Secret Caretaking, bed sharing, not team Cap friendly, taking care of each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 16:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19908802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withered/pseuds/withered
Summary: Barnes has to relearn how to sleep. It’s not as weird as it sounds.





	Hush, hush

Barnes has to relearn how to sleep. It’s not as weird as it sounds. Or at least, Tony doesn’t think so.

See, he’s well aware of what’s it like to struggle to do it. Tony practically runs Insomniacs Anonymous which is a given, really; the last time he’s gotten a full, satisfying night’s sleep was probably in the womb. Not that he doesn’t try. He does.

But Tony’s read somewhere that sleep requires peace, and he doesn’t think that’s something either of them has, all things considered, so he doesn’t have his hopes set too high.

He fakes it well enough though if only to get that worried look off everyone’s face: Pepper will try and send him to a therapist again, Rhodey will get that disappointed sad look, Peter will physically restrain himself from tagging Tony in memes in the middle of the night which will just result in a barrage come morning, and Happy will grumble about driving him around at odd hours but won’t mean a word of it as he glances back and forth between the rear-view and the road which probably isn’t safe so Tony’s really doing this for them.

Friday won’t tell. Yet.

He’s got an agreement from his youngest that if the lack of sleep starts to be detrimental, she’ll pump the brakes – no ifs, buts or whys about it. And so far, she must be satisfied.

It isn’t like Tony doesn’t sleep, period. He just…doesn’t do it continuously. He catnaps and takes short snoozes, and can reboot and reload, so to speak, in the span of forty-five minutes. It’s efficient. It’s how he’s learned to get his rest. No one’s complained of sleep-deprived crankiness or exhaustion fuelled temper tantrums – which is not something to be said for Barnes.

Tony doesn’t ask how sleep worked while Barnes was up and about in Wakanda, but the answer he’s going to go with is _Not._

Barnes is, after all – at this very moment – threatening to disembowel Barton with a spoon.

Which Tony, for one, _would love to see._ You know. For science. Except he can’t even casually approve because Rhodey isn’t here and Carol will literally blast them to cinders, and Tony has to be the grown-up the room.

“Alright, alright, I think he gets the picture, Boo Bun,” Tony interjects, putting himself between them because no one else will. Romanoff isn’t an idiot, even for Barton’s safety, Rogers hasn’t been able to look Barnes in the eye since the defrost, and Tony suspects Wilson wants to see the disembowelment.

It’s tragic that the lot of them qualify for a team referred to as Earth’s Mightiest. Tony’s embarrassed for them all.

Barnes snaps his teeth in response, and Tony resists the urge to grab a spray bottle and start squirting. “C’mon, enough of that,” he insists, leading Barnes backward by the shoulders. “You’re only angry because you’re tired.”

“I’m always angry,” he scowls, glaring over Tony’s head.

Rolling his eyes, Tony echoes, “Whatever you say, Winter Hulk.”

It isn’t the first fight he’s had to break up since the Rogues’ return.

It’s just a miracle that Barnes goes along with being torn from what would clearly bring him great joy – he’s said it himself, and it should say something that Barnes had been talking about Barton’s murder at the time.

In his defense, being around Barton generally inspires feelings of murder, so Tony’ll give him a pass.

At least Barnes takes the separation with as much grace as he can spare with the obvious sleep deprivation.

Considering that with the Rogues’ return, Princess Shuri had thrust a sealed box at Tony and declared Barnes to be insufferable before launching into an argument marked with a series of growls from her opponent, Tony had expected worse.

His isiXhosa isn’t great, but Barnes had no qualms about shit-talking a royal in her native tongue.

Still, the princess and the Super Soldier had exchanged a reluctant goodbye before Tony had been warned to “take care of him, colonizer”, so Tony’s going to take the box for the gift it is.

Except Barnes didn’t want the drugs the box contained.

“They make my head hurt,” was the only response Barnes had given him before skulking away like he’d been kicked in the stomach which was honestly so many levels of unfair because _Tony was really trying to be nice to him, okay?_

It’s been a year since The Incident, and Tony knows the whole thing with the Bunker was shitty for them both. Now that everything is supposedly good with them – apologies were made, forgiveness was had – Tony had hoped that they could at the very least, be okay.

It’s not an expectation he’s just throwing out there too. The Rogues are, by and large, never going to be allowed into the East Wing of the Compound unless the actual apocalypse happens – which, with the way Tony and the rest of New Avengers are working overtime, is not going to happen on their watch. So, Rogers can take his shitty half-ass apology and shove it so far up his own ass that he can taste it every time he swallows.

Anyway, Tony had had to find other ways to ensure Barnes sleeps. If only to make sure Barton is still breathing by the time Carol comes back in a month.

Tony turns to forcing Barnes to drink chamomile tea which somehow Tony screwed up because he’d used Bruce’s _special_ tea instead and –

By the time they both came down from the high an indeterminate amount of hours later, they wake up lying next to each other on the floor of the lab, blinking back the stars of Friday’s coding which she’d retroactively used to lull them to sleep – and Tony supposes – _that got the job done._

Of course, then, Tony feels a little sick to his stomach because _the tea’s fucking potent, what the fuck, Bruce?_

But Barnes is more relaxed throughout the day and only gets into a fight with the vending machine near the gym once so Tony takes the win where he can get it. Though, he resolves to find more _traditional_ methods to induce sleep, if only to make sure they don’t finish Bruce’s stash and face _his wrath._

The whole don’t-do-anything-stimulating before trying to sleep was struck from the list immediately because _impossible, Tony practically has ADHD and if Barnes doesn’t punch_ _something at least once every hour, someone’s bone breaks anyway,_ Tony has to look for other options.

Enter Friday, who has such options all queued up and ready for pursual.

Tony pretends to only be slightly perturbed that his daughter has a PowerPoint prepared and peppered with awful attempts at photoshop, and a shitty PSA video from the forties on appropriate sleeping etiquette starring Steve Rogers in hot pants, embedded into the final slide. Tony may never recover.

Nor will he recover from trying to teach Barnes yoga – which Barnes already knows, somehow.

Seeing a guy built like a brick house with a man bun do a perfect Standing Forward Bend, Scorpion, Downward Dog, and Plough Pose, shirtless and in a pair of sweatpants, was _not_ the reminder Tony needed that he was a bisexual disaster on a good day.

The fact that Tony needed some very specific alone time, had come harder than he had in recent memory, and then passed out for a record four hours is something he will not admit under threat of blackmail.

He’d recommend the activity to Barnes, but he feels like that’s probably crossing a line.

So, Tony tries something else.

The East Wing of the Compound has already had the lights adjusted to refract light differently to be less harsh on the eyes and physiologically trick the brain into relaxation; it just seemed easier to move Barnes in than to do the same to the West Wing.

(It isn’t, it would take Friday a minute and a half to change the settings appropriately throughout the whole Compound, but when Tony had brought up the lights already being set up in the East Wing, and Barnes had looked so hopeful. It didn’t help that the look hadn’t gone away when Tony had stopped half-way through suggesting doing the same to the West Wing and it just seemed _easier, okay?_ )

Rogers tries to argue.

Barnes doesn’t want to hear it.

No more was said on the matter.

Though there was a curious Rogers-sized dent in the wall when Tony had come around to escort Barnes over, but Friday only hummed, “Oh?” like she’d had no idea, and Tony might be getting more sleep than before but he’s _still too tired for this shit._

Tony usually has more time to personalize a room for any new occupants for the East Wing, but getting Barnes in a safe, sleep-friendly environment seemed more important. He’d gotten the basics down at least, and decked out Barnes’ new quarters with a new mattress; clean, soft new sheets and the best sleep-device pillows money could buy and hoped for the best.

Barton hadn’t been happy that Barnes got to leave the “shitty” part of the Compound – which was a whole different argument entirely because Tony doesn’t make shitty _anything_ – and Barnes had let a serene smile take over his face which meant Barton was about a sentence and a sneer away from being put through the floor.

It was for Barton’s own good that Barnes sleeps tonight. That Barnes still doesn’t is only a little bit disappointing:

“It’s a new space,” Tony soothes, “it’ll take a while for you to get comfortable, just…you know…give it time. At least try and lie down.”

And, to his credit, Barnes had.

Only he’d come stalking into the lab forty minutes later, dragging his pillow and a blanket; made a nest for himself on the couch across from Tony’s workbench, and glared until Tony had sighed. “That bad, huh?”

Barnes grunts.

“Maybe I should just change the lights in the West Wing?”

“Wouldn’t make a difference, doll, don’t sleep there either.” And before Tony can say anything to that, Barnes adds, “You should sleep too.”

“I took a nap,” Tony says, doing an admirable job of ignoring the way Barnes frowns.

“That’s not long enough, and you know it.” To that, Tony hums, still not giving Barnes any attention until Barnes huffs. In the quiet hum of the lab, admits, “My head hurts.”

“Do you want Princess Shuri’s gift?”

Barnes frown grows a tick more frustrated. “Darlin’, I appreciate the offer but you know I don’t like ‘em.”

“Right, right…” Pausing in his task of reassembling a glove gauntlet for Barnes’ flesh and blood hand, an idea pops in that will occur to Tony later might have been some kind of subliminal messaging, but doesn’t at that moment because (1) Tony’s tired and (2) _Barnes has a headache,_ that Tony says, “Hey, I might know how to fix that.”

It involves petting Barnes’ head.

Maria had done it for Tony as a child – she hadn’t wanted him to rely on pills to cure his ailments if it could be soothed by something else – and well, it worked with Rhodey when he’d been going through physiotherapy so –

How Tony falling asleep petting Barnes happens, he isn’t sure.

The repetitive movement? Counting Barnes’ breathes to make sure he was doing okay? The comforting, grounding weight of Barnes against him? The sense of safety that if anything were to happen that Barnes would literally rip whoever it was to pieces? Everything and all of the above.

It’s a repeated experiment. Because science.

On average, they sleep a total of six hours.

It’s a goddamn Christmas miracle.

Unfortunately, the couch is not conductive to Tony’s back because not only is he _old,_ but his back is (ugh) fragile, and he doesn’t have Super Serum healing to recover from it, so, Tony has to sleep in his bed: It’s memory foam, and has a thousand thread count sheets, and he’s got feather down pillows goddamn it, it’s a travesty that he _can’t_ sleep on it.

Well. Not anymore.

Tony is going to sleep in his bed.

He’s going to sleep the whole night.

_He’s going to do it._

Barnes, damn him, nods agreeably, and if it weren’t for his lack of snark about how _Tony was going to sleep the whole night if it killed him,_ Tony might have felt more like shit for showing up in Barnes’ room an hour later – stupid feather down pillow and thousand thread count sheets et al.

Tony takes some small amount of pleasure in finding Barnes still awake, propped up on the headboard in bare feet, plaid sleep pants, shirtless and hair messily braided in a haphazard bun.

He shouldn’t.

But he does.

With a dramatic sigh, Tony dumps his offers at the end of the bed, crosses his arms and glares like its Barnes’ fault. Which according to the data – might actually be true.

Tony hasn’t slept alone in weeks, and his catnaps weren’t even close to satisfactory without Barnes nearby. It’s bullshit. With a grunt and a grumble, Tony knee walks from the end of the bed to the empty space beside the other man.

Barnes only hums as Tony replaces Barnes’ pillows with his, pounds it and huffily lies back against it, turning resolutely on his side to give Barnes his back in petulant displeasure.

It doesn’t bother Barnes any.

In fact, Barnes switches off the lamp on his side of the bed, rubs Tony’s shoulder, and lies down beside him. Barnes fits his knees behind his, wraps his prosthetic around Tony’s waist, and murmurs goodnight into the back of Tony’s neck.

Sleeping six hours is easier.

It only takes two days of this new(ish) arrangement for Tony to finally put the connections together: “Was I taking care of you, or were you taking care of me?”

He feels Barnes shrug before he nuzzles insistently into the juncture of Tony’s shoulder and neck, prosthetic hand grappling with the skin beneath Tony’s shirt as if to pull him closer. “Don’t really matter, does it?”

“No,” Tony decides in the dark. “Although hypothetically,” he begins with an almost innocent roll of his hips back into Barnes’, noting with a thrill the equally innocent stiffy Barnes has been trying to pass off as his knee, press back, “could I make a request for the latter?”

Tony feels Barnes duck his head a little, skim his teeth against the vertebrae of Tony’s spine before cupping his metal hand around the growing pulse of heat between Tony’s legs before Barnes purrs, “That can be arranged.”

\------

Suffice to say they take care of each other – as they’ve been doing – and the results are a resounding success.

Though the first time is somewhat inconvenient.

They sleep twelve hours. Rhodey and Rogers come changing into the room with the opposing assumptions that either Tony passed out and Barnes has spent that period drawing on his prone form with a sharpie and Rhodey wants to get in on it (“Just because you’re an asshole, doesn’t mean he is, Platypus,” Tony scoffed. “Oh, no, I’m definitely an asshole,” Barnes corrects to Tony’s snort. “Whose side are you on, babe?”) or that Tony is keeping Barnes chained up (“I don’t know, I kind of think it should be the other way around, don’t you, puddin’?” Tony teases over his shoulder with a flutter of his lashes.)

With a sheepish smile, Tony tells a clearly unimpressed Rhodey, “Let’s be honest, this is not the worst thing you’ve caught me doing.”

It’s awkward for exactly one person.

Rogers turns so red at finding them in bed together that Tony thinks that the paragon of patriotism will pass out and die, making Tony’s attempts to spare Barton from Barnes’ sleep-exhausted fits of murder were all for naught.

Almost blandly, Barnes muses, “Does that mean I can finally throw Barton out the window?”

Ah, well, Tony tried.

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been trying to write for Winteriron week and the prompts are so good – the heart is willing, but the mind is in revolt. Unfortunately, this and [Don't want your money ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19908715) are the only fics I can offer, but I hope you enjoy them anyway. 
> 
> [As always](https://everything-withered.tumblr.com)


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